It’s All Baked Inn - 5. Start with the Wets

The living room flickered to life beneath the soft orange light of a vanilla-scented candle.

Chase cupped one hand around the flame until the wick caught properly, then watched it steady itself — small, bright, and stubborn against the dark. He set the lighter down on the counter and stared at the glow like it had personally promised to keep his life from falling apart.

It had not.

Rude.

Still, sugar and spice curled into the air, warm and familiar, mixing with the damp scent that had slowly crept through the house since the rain had begun sometime in the afternoon.

It should have been comforting — enough to take some of the edge off the dark. And, usually, it was. But tonight, the shivering flame made the shadows look more alive.

Made the old ache in his bones just a little bit worse with worry.

Rain ticked against the glass in a steady rhythm — harder now than it had been an hour ago. Every few minutes, wind whistled against the house hard enough to make the frame complain. Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the trees — deep and distant — but close enough that Chase felt it in his stomach as much as he heard it.

Familiar in a way he didn’t want to think about.

He breathed out slowly, rolled his shoulders, and pasted on a smile before turning back toward the sofa.

Prunella had tucked herself into one corner beneath a fleece Star Brigade blanket, her legs folded under her and a drawing balanced across her knees. Mr. Bananas sat propped on one side of her, wearing the explorer hat she had recently declared essential survival equipment, while Lady Lovalorn guarded the other side with her glittering horn, cat whiskers, and pink paws. Her new bat plushie was wedged against her shoulder — half pillow, half staring down the storm like a tiny, underqualified bodyguard.

The entire arrangement looked suspiciously defensive for a child who had spent the last half hour insisting she was completely unbothered by both the rain and, now, the dark.

Chase carried the candle over and set it carefully in the center of the coffee table, nudging it farther from the edge and around the remains of dinner: carrot sticks Pru was pretending not to see, grapes she had deemed acceptable, and one tiny square of macaroni that had somehow escaped onto the tabletop.

Then he dropped cross-legged onto the rug in front of her.

“There,” he announced, gesturing grandly toward the little pool of warm light as though he’d invented fire itself. “Not as bad with a little light on the subject, right? Cozy. Atmospherish. We’re, like, basically in a fancy period drama now.”

Pru looked slowly from the candle to him, her mouth flattening into a skeptical line. “I can handle storms and the dark,” she informed him, lifting her chin. “I’m not a baby.”

Chase let his gaze drift deliberately toward the stuffed animals stationed around her before squinting at Mr. Bananas. “Riiiiight,” he drawled. “My mistake. Power outages ain’t got nothing on the Hollows. And clearly these three are here for completely unrelated tactical purposes.”

Pru glanced down at the stuffed monkey before looking back at Chase with the same solemn expression. “Clearly,” she agreed.

“Mm-hmm.” Chase leaned toward the coffee table and eyed the abandoned dinner plate sitting there. “They’re probably protecting you from finishing your carrots before dessert.”

Pru immediately folded her arms over her chest. “They’re protecting me,” she corrected. “Duh.”

“From vegetables?” Chase asked, raising one brow.

“Maybe,” she replied, with enough dignity that he almost admired the argument.

Chase snorted softly and stole one of the grapes from his own plate. “Cowards. All four of you.”

Pru gave him a deeply offended look, then rolled her eyes before turning her attention back to her drawing.

Practically a smile.

That was enough for him.

Ever since she’d told him about Robin — his bug books, his weather facts, and the fact that he was apparently officially friend-shaped in practice now and not just in theory — there’d been something different in her all week.

A little more sass, a little more energy, a little less dimmed around the edges.

Like she was happy and excited and adjusting to the idea that good things might really be allowed to happen.

Chase knew the feeling.

He chewed slowly and let his gaze drift toward the window.

Hundreds of tiny droplets covered the glass, gathering into crooked little rivers as they slid downward. Small moving spots of shadow danced over the floorboards, the walls, and their skin — any place where the warm candlelight didn’t chase them away.

The rain should have sounded peaceful.

Tonight, every hard patter against the glass made him flinch. Too loud in the quiet — like a soundtrack his body remembered even if he tried not to. It wasn’t enough to panic him, and certainly not enough that he intended to let Pru notice, but he had remained braced since the first thunderclap.

He looked toward the breakfast nook instead, where another drop of water struck the old roasting pan beneath the ceiling leak with a metallic plink. A second followed a few moments later.

Then another.

Each one sounding much louder than it had any right to in the dim room.

Like a relentless metronome.

Chase glanced up and narrowed his eyes at the water stain spreading across the plaster.

He could have sworn it had grown.

Not dramatically — but enough that the darker edge had crept several inches farther toward the wall since the last time he checked. He tipped his head and watched another bead of water gather before dropping into the pan.

The tightness low in his stomach sharpened.

“Okay,” he muttered as he pushed himself up.

Pru glanced over from her drawing, her marker pausing above the page. “What?”

“Nothing,” Chase replied automatically.

But the way Pru narrowed her eyes told him she didn’t believe him.

Apparently, he had taught her too well.

He forced a brighter expression and pointed toward the paper in her lap. “Continue your very important artistic business. I’m going to perform some absolutely amazing and impressive house magic.”

Pru stared at him. “You’re not magic.”

Chase stopped halfway toward the kitchen and looked back. “Wow.”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and retrieved a dish towel. “Just getting fact-checked by a six-year-old. I’m magic in spirit, kid.”

“I don’t think that’s real.”

“As real as cat-icorns,” he answered solemnly. “Swearsies.”

Prunella considered that, then nodded like it made perfect sense.

Chase dragged one of the dining chairs beneath the damp patch and climbed onto it carefully.

He had already moved the roasting pan twice because the leak seemed incapable of committing to one location. Earlier, when the stain had still been relatively small, he had pressed two fingertips gently against the plaster.

It had given slightly.

Not enough to crumble — but enough that he had immediately pulled his hand away and declared the problem tomorrow’s responsibility.

Most house problems became tomorrow problems when fixing them involved money you hadn’t budgeted for.

Chase steadied himself against the wall and stretched the towel toward the thin trail of water creeping along the ceiling.

Maybe drying the edge would keep it from reaching the wall. Or maybe it would accomplish absolutely nothing. But standing beneath it and not trying anything to help somehow felt worse.

He had barely dabbed the dampest spot when Pru’s voice reached him from the couch.

“You’re not ’sposed to touch wet walls,” she warned.

Chase looked over his shoulder. She had lowered her drawing and was watching him with the concerned expression of someone preparing to identify his body.

“What?” he asked carefully. “And follow-up: says who?”

“Robin,” she answered immediately. “He says touching wet walls is bad.”

The name softened Chase’s annoyance before he could stop it. “Robin told you not to touch wet walls?”

Pru shook her head. “He said his dad said not to touch wet walls when their pipe broke because electric stuff can hurt you through water.”

Chase slowly lowered the towel and glanced toward the nearest light fixture. “That… is actually a very solid argument. Props to him.”

Pru nodded, satisfied. “Robin knows lots of stuff.”

The warmth that moved beneath Chase’s ribs had nothing to do with the candle.

Because until recently, she’d been sitting on the outside — different in a way the other kids had decided to avoid instead of understand. And now, somehow, she’d found her way into something of her own: another quiet kid, a shared world of bugs and imagination, someone whose thoughts had already become familiar enough for her to quote during household emergencies as though he had always belonged in her everyday vocabulary.

Chase stepped down from the chair. “Okay. Tell Robin he may have prevented me from accidentally-on-purpose electrocuting myself.”

He glanced back at the ceiling. “Though I would’ve done it in style. For the record.”

Pru considered that. “I think he’d also probably say not to stand on chairs.”

Chase looked at the chair, then back at her. “I’m an adult. I can live on the edge.”

“Of chairs?”

He nodded. “It’s… a very small edge.”

Pru’s lips twitched as she bent over her drawing again.

Then, since his plan had been vetoed by both basic safety and a six-year-old’s new friend, Chase settled for moving the roasting pan beneath the newest drip.

“There,” he said, placing both hands on his hips. “Problem temporarily contained.”

Another drop struck the pan.

Pru looked at it, then at him. “It’s still all wet and drippy.”

“Contained,” Chase repeated.

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

He pointed at her.

She pointed back.

Before the argument could develop further, Chase’s phone buzzed against the coffee table and the opening notes of a Star Brigade song burst brightly through the quiet room.

He glanced at the screen.

Without permission, some of the tension between his shoulders loosened.

Chase answered and tucked the phone against his ear, then lifted his voice into something lighter than he felt. “Hello, hello, you’re live with Chase Hollow. ’Sup, Dorkin?”

Deacon sighed deeply enough that Chase could picture the exact twitch beside his eye.

“The storm’s hitting pretty hard over here,” Deacon explained. “You guys okay?”

Chase glanced toward the stain overhead as another drop landed in the roasting pan, then toward Pru, who had already resumed coloring.

“Yup,” he replied, reaching for another grape. “Peachy keen. Everything is fantastical. But we lost power or something, so I’m currently sitting in the dark with the tiny gremlin and have decided that scented candles count as good emergency prep.”

Deacon went quiet for half a second before translating, “You lost power?”

“No, Dorkin, I’m just in a candlelit dinner mood,” Chase joked. Then he bit into the grape, gaze fixed pointedly on his Star Brigade throw.

“Please tell me you’re not staring at your boyband merch like a lovestruck superfan again,” Deacon muttered.

Chase’s eyes slid away from Romeo Locke’s face on the blanket. “...You can’t prove that.”

Deacon made a disbelieving noise. “Why are we friends.”

“Cuz I’m a ray of sunshine,” Chase argued, chewing. “Which. Would be great right now for realsies because it’s dark.”

“Hold on,” Deacon said.

Chase heard muffled voices in the background, followed by Grandpa Ralph’s considerably less muffled voice booming somewhere on the other end.

Then Deacon again, lower. “We lost power, too. Grandpa wants to know if you—”

“ASK HIM IF HE CHECKED THE BREAKER!” Ralph shouted loudly enough that Chase pulled the phone half an inch from his ear.

Despite himself, Chase smiled. “Tell Grandpa Ralph he doesn’t have to shout through three walls and a phone.”

“He says he does,” Deacon replied tiredly.

“I believe him.”

Deacon returned his attention to Chase. “Did you check the breaker?”

Chase wandered toward the small utility panel in the hallway. “I was going to.”

“So no,” Deacon translated.

“I resent your tone,” Chase mumbled, opening the panel.

“You resent facts.”

“I resent lots of stuff.”

Chase used his phone as a flashlight, illuminating the neat row of breakers. He studied them for a few seconds, but nothing looked obviously tripped or out of place.

“They all look normal,” he said, frowning. “But to be fair, I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

Deacon sighed. “Is your street dark?”

Chase glanced out the window. “Yep.”

“Then it’s probably the whole neighborhood,” Deacon replied. “Our power’s been out for about ten minutes.”

Chase closed the panel and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Ah. Hopefully they fix it faster than the time Steve and his little squirrel mafia murdered the power lines.”

Deacon went quiet.

When he spoke again, he seemed unsure whether to laugh or not. “You name the squirrels?”

Chase straightened in immediate offense. “Wh—no! Not me, Dorkin.” He pointed uselessly toward the living room as though Deacon might somehow see through the phone. “Pru did. Steve looked more like a Dopey McSquirrel to me.”

From the sofa, Prunella lifted her head. “That’s a dumb name.”

Chase clutched a hand dramatically to his chest. “It’s a fun name, kiddo.”

“Steve is better,” Pru said, returning to her drawing.

“Steve sounds like he works in accounting,” Chase muttered.

Pru frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “He has a wife named Acornia.”

Chase blinked. “Wait,” he said, walking back toward the living room. “Steve is married?”

Pru nodded. “And they have babies.”

“How many?”

“Three,” she answered.

He stopped beside the couch. “Three? Wow.”

“One is adopted,” Pru explained, as though it were an easy and normal picture of a family. “Robin says squirrels sometimes take care of babies that aren’t theirs.”

That landed differently.

Chase felt something in his chest tighten.

“Right,” he murmured. “Good for Steve.”

Deacon had gone quiet, probably hearing more in the exchange than Pru realized. “Sounds like she’s doing okay,” he said softly.

Chase rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at Pru again. “She is.”

A hard gust of wind struck the side of the house and made the windows tremble in their frames.

Chase’s eyes snapped toward the ceiling.

Another drop struck the roasting pan — followed quickly by two more.

His smile faded.

Deacon heard the silence. “What was that?” he asked, his voice sharpening immediately.

“Wind,” Chase replied.

“That sounded nasty.”

“Just weather being dramatic,” Chase assured him, though his gaze stayed fixed on the spreading stain.

“Chase,” Deacon warned.

And there it was — that particular tone that meant stop performing for five seconds and answer the question.

Chase lowered his voice and walked toward the breakfast nook, careful not to draw Pru’s attention. “The leak’s gotten a little worse,” he admitted.

“How much worse?” Deacon asked.

Chase tipped his head back and studied the dark patch. “Define ‘worse.’”

“Chase.”

“Okay, okay.” He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. “It’s dripping faster, but nothing is, like, that bad.”

The unspoken yet pressed unpleasantly at the back of his mind, but he kept that part to himself.

“Do you want to come over?” Deacon asked — practical first, no fuss.

The offer landed warm and immediate, the way it always did.

Chase loved him for it.

Which was exactly why his chest seized up.

“No,” Chase answered too quickly.

He closed his eyes for half a second, already hearing how reflexive the answer had sounded.

“I… can’t impose on you guys like that,” he explained.

“Why not?”

Because Grandpa Ralph will pretend not to notice how much extra food we eat.

Because your tiny guest room still smells like juice from the times Prunella spilled.

Because you’ll say it’s fine and mean it and I’ll still feel like a debt in sneakers.

The old anxieties creeped under his skin the way they always did — maybe always would. The feeling that finally having a full-time job still didn’t fix every hole in life’s ceiling.

He was so tired of needing things.

Chase swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You guys do too much already. If we need anything, I’ll head to Keyhouse. I get, like, an employee discount.”

“Chase. I’ve known you since we were kids. It’s really not a problem,” Deacon insisted.

Chase’s gaze moved toward Pru.

She had settled back into her drawing, one stuffed animal tucked against either side of her like fuzzy bookends. Her shoulders had loosened again. She looked content enough for the moment — sheltered inside her little circle of candlelight, colored pencils, and stuffed animals.

Safe.

At least for now.

“We’re fine,” Chase replied.

Deacon let the silence stretch just long enough to make the words feel transparent.

“You know you don’t have to prove that every time something goes wrong,” he said eventually.

Chase’s mouth tightened. “I’m not proving anything.”

“Okay,” Deacon replied.

“I’m not,” Chase repeated.

“I said okay.”

“You said it weird.”

Deacon sighed audibly. “I’m not doing this with you.”

That almost got a smile out of Chase.

Almost.

Another drop struck the pan behind him, the metal sound sharper now that he was listening for it.

“I’ll call if it gets worse,” Chase promised.

“You mean that?” Deacon asked.

“Yes,” Chase said, and this time he tried to sound sincere enough that Deacon might believe him.

Deacon let the silence sit for another moment before conceding. “Fine. But actually call.”

“I will.”

“Grandpa says hi,” Deacon added.

“Tell him I said hi back.” Chase returned to the rug and lowered himself beside the coffee table. “And tell him he needs to invent some kind of normal peppermint drink for Christmas.”

From somewhere inside Deacon’s house, Grandpa Ralph shouted loudly enough to come through the phone again, “I ALREADY HAVE THREE!”

Chase grinned. “Tell him smokey peppermint bacon cold brew does not count.”

“I am not telling him that,” Deacon said immediately.

“Coward.”

“Goodnight, Chase,” Deacon replied, the amusement still audible in his voice.

“Night, Dorkin.”

Deacon made an offended noise before hanging up.

The screen went dark in Chase’s hand.

For a few seconds, he stared at his own faint reflection in the black glass, the candlelight catching against the edges of his face. Then he set the phone on the coffee table and rested his head against one palm.

Pru looked over from her drawing. “Can I have a cupcake now?” she asked hopefully.

Chase glanced toward her plate, where two untouched baby carrots remained as obvious evidence against her case.

“Eat your carrots first,” he chided, nudging the plate toward her.

Pru’s face crumbled with theatrical suffering. “But Dad,” she whined.

Chase went completely still.

The candle flame shifted in his peripheral vision, bending faintly with the same draft that had been moving through the room all evening — like it knew something he didn’t.

Everything else seemed to go oddly quiet around him.

Dad.

There it was again.

The word. The weight.

Outside, thunder rolled over the roof, and for a strange second the sound tangled with the word until he couldn’t separate either one from the sudden pressure beneath his ribs.

He swallowed.

His hand moved automatically toward Mr. Bananas, and he straightened the little explorer hat on the stuffed monkey’s head even though it wasn’t remotely crooked. His fingers simply needed somewhere to go.

His mind, meanwhile, was already elsewhere. Caught somewhere between ‘Pumpkins and Papas,’ a sleepy goodnight, an everyday argument over carrots, and squirrels — who sometimes take care of babies that aren’t theirs.

Dad.

Which dragged another word in after it before he could stop it: adoption.

That thought brought the smell of flour and almonds back so vividly that, for a moment, it nearly displaced the vanilla candle and rain altogether.

The steady tapping against the windows softened into the tick of a kitchen timer. The damp chill of the living room gave way to the low thrum of refrigeration units, the distant clink of metal against stainless steel, and the lingering warmth of ovens that had already survived the morning rush.

And then Silvie’s voice was there too, gentle and knowing from the other side of the worktable.

Earlier that week, Chase had lingered in the bakery after the rush faded, wiping the same stretch of counter for what had to be the fourth time. There was nothing left on it to clean. The marble already gleamed beneath the overhead lights, but his hands apparently hadn’t received the message.

Silvie appeared across from him with her pink apron slightly askew and a streak of flour dusting one cheek. She watched the rag travel over the spotless surface once more before resting both palms against the edge of the counter.

“Oh dear,” she said gently, her gaze following his hand. “You’re either attempting to scrub directly through that counter, or something is making you terribly upset.”

Chase looked down at the spotless steel. “Maybe I’m just super duper committed to cleaning?” he tried. “Life might be a mess, but this kitchen won’t be!”

Silvie tilted her head.

His attempt at a casual smile survived for approximately two seconds.

“Okay,” Chase admitted, dropping the rag near the sink. He leaned back against the opposite counter and rubbed both palms down his apron. “Pru called me Dad.”

Silvie’s expression softened immediately. “Oh, Chase.”

“Yep.” He gave an awkward laugh and stared at the floor. “That’s basically what my stupid brain has been doing, too. Just ‘oh, Chase’ on repeat. Maybe with some more colorful words sprinkled in for fun.”

She moved around the island and leaned beside him instead of staying across from him. “When did she say it?”

“At the carnival, kind of,” Chase explained, picking at a loose thread near the hem of his apron. “Her friend Robin asked if I was her dad, and she didn’t correct him.”

Silvie stayed quiet, giving him room to continue.

“And I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Chase said. “Kids make assumptions all the time. People make that assumption about us all the time.”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth as an old memory surfaced. “One lady in New Haven told me I was such a devoted young father because I held her up on my shoulders the entire St. Patrick’s Day parade so she could see. I was nineteen. With a five year old. But people still think—”

He sighed.

Silvie smiled faintly.

“Anyway, then we got home after the carnival,” Chase continued, and the humor faded from his voice. “I tucked her in. And she was basically asleep already, and she just…”

His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause.

He looked away.

“She said, ‘Night, Dad,’” he finished quietly.

Silvie’s expression softened further.

Chase swallowed and forced out a breath. “I didn’t correct her. I just… froze.”

“Did you want to?” Silvie asked.

Chase opened his mouth, but no answer came.

He looked down at his hands. “That’s kind of the problem,” he admitted after a moment.

Silvie stayed beside him without rushing to fill the silence.

Chase drew one knee up slightly against the cabinet behind him, restless energy moving through his body even while he tried to stand still.

“I’ve always told her I’m her brother,” he explained. “Because I am. That’s what I am. And she had parents.”

His voice softened before he corrected himself. “She has parents.”

Silvie didn’t argue with the tense.

Chase stared at his hands. “I don’t want her to forget them. I know she was little, but I remember everything.”

Movie nights flashed through his mind. His mother singing badly while she cooked. His father giving nature documentaries increasingly ridiculous narration until everyone laughed too hard to hear the television. Lantern Festival trips. Ordinary dinners. The exact pressure of his mother’s arms around him from behind.

All the things no one told you to memorize because you didn’t know there would be a test later.

“I don’t want me to forget them either,” Chase admitted. “Or to stop telling her things because it hurts. What if she only remembers them because I keep talking about them and one day I just… don’t?”

“You won’t,” Silvie said with enough certainty to make him look up. “You won’t stop telling her.”

His throat tightened. “I don’t want to replace them.”

“You aren’t.”

“I know, but hearing her say it still meant something.” A shaky laugh escaped him. “Which feels horrible to admit.”

Silvie’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because they should be here.” Chase looked away. “Dad should be helping her with her ABCs. Mom should be making her wear sweaters she hates. They should be embarrassing her at school pickup, and I should just be the dumb older brother who teaches her bad words accidentally and gives her too much sugar.”

The humor cracked before it really formed.

“But… they’re not here,” he whispered.

“No,” Silvie agreed softly. “They’re not.”

Chase wiped quickly at one cheek. “Um… sorry. Crying and venting at work feels like something HR would get all uptight about.”

“You are barely crying.”

“Still feels mega illegal.”

That earned the laugh he had been hoping for.

Silvie reached toward a nearby cooling rack and placed a warm almond bun in his hand. “You’ve done more than okay, Chase. You’ve raised her.”

He looked down at the pastry. “That sounds weird.”

“It doesn’t make it less true. You feed her, take her to school, know what she’s afraid of, and probably know which stuffed animal needs to sleep closest to the wall.”

“Mr. Bananas has seniority now.”

Silvie blinked.

“Stuffed monkey,” he explained.

Silvie smiled, then continued more gently. “Wonderful. See? You know her. You’ve kept her safe and loved. And you’ve given her stability.”

The word snagged.

For a brief second, Chase thought of custody fights.

Then money. The house. The new full-time job.

All the things he kept hoping would add up to safe if he collected enough of them.

“I’m trying,” he murmured.

“I know.” Silvie touched his arm lightly. “The whole town knows, Chase. And you—”

“I just don’t want to take something that doesn’t belong to me,” he rushed out, his eyes growing wet again.

Silvie shook her head. “You’re not taking it. She’s giving it to you.”

The words landed softly.

Chase took a bite of the almond bun because his eyes had started burning now and chewing, somehow, seemed safer.

Silvie continued, “Keep telling her about your parents. Show her pictures. Keep them real for both of you. But let the name be hers.”

He swallowed slowly. “Should I tell her not to say it?”

“I don’t think you have to treat it like something dangerous. If ‘Dad’ means the person who takes care of her and makes her feel safe, then maybe you can let her decide what that means.”

Chase stared down at the pastry for several seconds before nodding.

Silvie squeezed his arm.

And something in him loosened.

Not completely. But… enough.

Then Silvie hesitated.

Chase noticed. “What?”

“Well, I hope this isn’t too personal…”

He snorted. “You just watched me sniffle pathetically in a bakery like I was sending my beloved sourdough son off to war. We’ve totally passed personal, Sil.”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Are you… just her guardian, or… have you ever thought about adopting her? Not because paperwork makes your relationship real. Just legally — for protection.”

Chase’s gaze dropped toward the bun. “I’ve thought about it. Mostly during the custody stuff.”

Silvie waited.

“There are extra protections. Harder for somebody to come in later and question whether she belongs with me. It’d be more… well, permanent.”

After a pause, she asked, “Well, do you see her as your daughter?”

Chase’s breath hitched.

He turned away and pulled a mixing bowl toward himself, then reached for flour and vanilla for no real reason beyond needing somewhere to put his hands.

With his back partly to her, he finally asked, very quietly, “Would it be wrong if I said sometimes?”

Silvie answered without hesitation. “No.”

Chase glanced over his shoulder.

“I think it’s sweet,” she added.

“What if my parents would hate that?”

Silvie considered him. “Would they?”

Chase thought of his mother placing baby Pru in his arms and warning him not to drop her — smiling the whole time because she knew he wouldn’t. He thought of his father teaching him how to warm bottles because you’re her big brother, Chase, and you should know.

His shoulders eased.

“No,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think so.”

He laughed softly despite himself. “Mom would probably haunt me for letting that monkey eat dessert before finishing dinner.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Chase snorted. “And Dad would haunt the cookie jar. He’d make sure the biggest cookie made its way into her little hands before the table was even set.”

Silvie smiled and nudged the almond bun toward him again.

He took another small bite.

“Family is what we make of it sometimes,” Silvie explained. “Worrying this much about whether you’re doing the right thing… Well, I think that’s evidence that you are, Chase. Trying matters.”

Chase swallowed.

Silvie’s expression softened. “You’re a good dad.”

The words struck hard enough that Chase had to look away.

Enough to see something shift near the bakery doorway.

The faint blur of dark clothing disappearing around the corner.

Probably another staff member passing through. The hallway outside the bakery never stopped moving — constantly filled with banquet carts, servers late to clock in, and deliveries for events.

But whoever had been there was already gone.

Chase looked back at Silvie before his brain could decide to investigate.

“So,” he said, deliberately forcing brightness back into his voice, “enough about my chaotic life. What’re you doing for Halloween?”

Silvie lit up almost instantly. “Oh! I’m making my own princess dress.”

Chase’s eyes widened. “You sew?”

“I’m trying,” she admitted.

“That sounds dangerous,” Chase said, looking appropriately concerned.

Silvie laughed. “You say that like you weren’t just valiantly attacking a countertop with a rag.”

“That counter knows what it did,” Chase replied.

Silvie laughed again before launching into an explanation of her costume plans — fabric, sleeves, and some ambitious detail Chase only half understood — while he finished the almond bun and let her voice carry him somewhere lighter.

Rain struck the living-room window.

Chase blinked.

The bakery faded.

The storm returned — water droplets and thunder filling the silence where Silvie’s voice had been.

The candle’s soft flicker illuminated Pru — still curled in the corner of the sofa, completely unaware that Chase had just replayed an entire existential crisis while she colored. Her tongue poked slightly from one corner of her mouth as she concentrated on the page.

Chase leaned closer.

There was a bat, a girl in an explorer hat, and beside them a vaguely human figure with pointed ears.

Chase squinted at the drawing. “Is that Sir Bad Cat?” he asked.

Pru immediately covered the page. “No.”

Chase lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Your artistic secrets are safe.”

She slowly moved her arms aside, but angled the page away from him.

He smiled, then reached for the blanket pooled around her ankles and pulled it gently over her legs.

“You’re not a baby,” he said. “You’re braver than most people I know.”

Pru considered that before pointing toward her plate. “I still want a cupcake.”

Chase huffed out a laugh. “Carrots first, Monkey. Them’s the rules.”

She groaned dramatically but picked one up.

Chase leaned back, letting his head rest on the edge of the couch. And for several minutes, the whole world shrank back down to something manageable.

The candle burned steadily. Pru worked through a carrot as if it were a form of torture. The rain softened enough that the old house seemed to settle around them.

Maybe the worst of the storm had passed.

Maybe tomorrow, Chase would call someone about the roof, hear a number that made his soul leave his body, and then figure out how to pay it anyway.

He always figured things out eventually.

He had to.

Then the house groaned.

Loudly.

Chase’s eyes opened.

This wasn’t the familiar creak of old boards shifting beneath the weather. No — this sound came from somewhere deeper, long and strained, traveling overhead and down through the wall.

Pru stopped chewing. “Was that the roof?”

Chase sat straighter. “Probs just the wind.”

His voice sounded casual enough.

At least he hoped it did.

Another gust struck the house hard enough to make the windows shudder. Thunder followed almost immediately, rattling the glass.

Chase reached toward his plate for another grape and missed it on the first attempt because his fingers had started shaking.

He caught the grape on the second try and forced a grin. “If this keeps up, maybe you can build an ark tomorrow. Start with the ducks.”

Pru turned toward him. “What if the ducks say no?”

“Then we negotiate.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “A hostage exchange for their rubber bath friends.”

Pru blinked. “I’m keeping Mr. Quackly.”

“Naturally—”

Then a sharp crack split through the house.

Chase froze.

That wasn’t thunder.

He slowly turned toward the breakfast nook.

The dark patch on the ceiling had spread farther, and a thin fracture now ran through the center.

As he watched, the line widened.

Chase’s body moved before his thoughts caught up. “Pru,” he murmured, his voice suddenly low. He held out one hand. “Come here.”

She slid off the sofa immediately.

Chase reached for her just as another crack split through the plaster. A second fracture branched from the first, followed by a low, wet groan that turned his blood cold.

He pulled Pru toward him.

The house shifted.

A sickening crunch tore through the next room.

Then everything came down at once.

Chase wrapped one arm around Pru and pulled her tightly against his chest as plaster, soaked insulation, fractured wood, and something metallic crashed into the breakfast nook. The roasting pan clattered across the floor with a violent clang, and glass shattered somewhere beneath the debris.

Dust rolled through the doorway.

For one stunned second, Chase heard nothing except the ringing in his own ears.

Then rain began pouring into the house.

Not dripping anymore.

Pouring.

Pru trembled against him.

His heart slammed against his ribs as he loosened his grip enough to look at her. “Hey,” he tried, forcing his voice steady. “You’re okay.”

Pru stared up at him, eyes wide. “The house broke.”

A breath that almost became a laugh escaped him. “Yeah. A little.”

She looked toward the breakfast nook. “A lot.”

“Yeah,” Chase admitted. “A lot.”

He guided her toward the sofa. “Stay here for one second.”

Pru searched his face before nodding slowly — determined to be brave.

Chase crossed toward the breakfast nook.

His socks hit water before he reached the doorway, and cold soaked instantly through the fabric.

The ceiling above the table was gone.

A jagged opening exposed insulation and fractured boards while rainwater streamed through in uneven sheets. Plaster and the remnants of dry ingredients — meant to become a batch of blondies for Mrs. Murphy’s retirement party — covered the table and floor. One chair lay sideways beneath a slab of drywall, and the roasting pan had been flung several feet away.

For a moment, Chase’s brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing.

Then the numbers arrived.

Roof. Ceiling. Water damage.

The full-time paycheck that had seemed so enormous only days ago suddenly felt painfully small.

Another gust forced rain through the opening.

The hard hiss against the debris and the splatter against his cheek dragged Chase somewhere else before he could stop it.

Another night. A different storm.

He swallowed hard, forcing air into lungs that didn’t want to cooperate.

Then Pru shifted behind him — and the tiny sound pulled him back.

Chase turned.

She sat exactly where he had asked, Mr. Bananas held tightly against her chest while she watched him.

Pru first.

Always Pru first.

He crossed back and crouched in front of her. “Look at me, Monkey.”

She did.

“We’re okay,” Chase told her.

Pru glanced toward the wrecked breakfast nook. “The roof isn’t.”

“No.” He rubbed his thumbs gently over her sleeves. “The roof is having a very bad evening, but we’re okay. That’s the part I care about.”

She nodded. “Can we still stay here?”

Chase followed her gaze toward the water pouring into the room.

“No.”

The answer hurt more than expected.

The house wasn’t perfect. It was drafty, stubborn, too small in places, and apparently held together by questionable roofing decisions — but it was theirs.

Pru’s drawings covered the refrigerator. Her shoes lived in a pile by the door. Markings by the pantry tracked both of their heights since they could walk. And Chase knew which floorboard squeaked in the hallway and exactly how hot the oven ran.

Home.

And now he had to take her out of it.

“Where are we going?” Pru asked.

Chase’s thoughts raced through the obvious options and landed on what he’d said to Deacon.

Old stone, warm lights, and a fireplace.

Keyhouse.

The place that had been quietly absorbing more and more of their lives.

“We’re going to the inn,” he murmured.

The answer seemed to satisfy her. Then he stood and clapped his hands once, giving both of them something practical to focus on.

“So mission time. Grab your unicorn bag. Pajamas, toothbrush, clothes for tomorrow.”

Pru slid off the sofa with Mr. Bananas hugged against her chest. “Can I bring him?”

“Monkey, if you tried to leave without Mr. Bananas,” Chase mused, guiding her toward the stairs, “I think he’d sue.”

When they reached her room, Pru immediately set to work, filling half the unicorn backpack with stuffed animals, glitter pens, a coloring book, two shirts, three pairs of socks, and a sheet of stickers.

Chase helped her remember pants and a toothbrush.

While she finished, Chase moved quickly through the upstairs rooms and packed the things his adrenaline kept trying to make him forget: medicine, clothes, his work uniform, chargers, spare shoes.

Then he remembered the folder in the bottom of his dresser.

Birth certificates. Custody paperwork. Insurance documents.

He shoved the whole thing into his bag — just as a smaller crash sounded downstairs.

Chase’s heart jumped.

Probably more plaster.

Probably.

“Dad?” Pru called from the hall.

“I’m here,” he answered immediately.

She appeared carrying the unicorn backpack in both hands.

It looked heavy enough to contain bricks.

Chase took it from her, zipped up her jacket, and handed her Mr. Bananas — then gathered the remaining bags.

At the bottom of the stairs, they stopped near the front window.

Rain whipped sideways beneath the porch light.

Chase’s stomach tightened again.

His body remembered before his mind could stop it.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder cracked.

His hand clenched around the car keys.

Pru stepped closer and slipped her hand into his.

Chase looked down at the contact — then Silvie’s voice drifted through his memory.

You’ve kept her safe.

Maybe being safe didn’t mean never being scared.

Maybe sometimes it meant being scared and opening the door anyway because someone trusted you to do it.

He squeezed her hand. “Okay,” Chase murmured as he reached for the knob. “New mission.”

Pru tightened her grip. “What mission?”

He looked through the narrow pane at the storm outside. “Get to Keyhouse, where it’s hopefully dry.”

Pru considered that. “Keyhouse has tiny soaps.”

Chase blinked.

“Robin said hotels have them,” she explained.

A surprised laugh escaped him.

There it was again.

Friend.

Proof that even on a night when part of their home had literally fallen down, not everything in Pru’s world was collapsing.

Chase pulled her hood farther over her hair. “Well,” he said as he opened the door to the roar of the rain, “then I guess we better investigate the tiny-soap situation.”

Pru nodded and stepped beneath his arm, Mr. Bananas tucked against her chest and her fingers curled around Chase’s hand. Her bag bumped lightly against her back as they crossed toward the car, the coloring book inside shifting with each step — a crayon drawing of Sir Bad Cat resting between the pages, barely begun.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

The pen lifted from the notebook, revealing a small ink drawing of an apple the assistant manager did not remember beginning.

He stared at it for a moment.

The lines were too rough. The shape was too round. And the stem ended in a leaf that was two sizes too big.

But there was no mistaking what it was.

Apparently, somewhere between reviewing occupancy numbers and updating event notes, his hand had decided administrative work required fruit.

He frowned, then turned the notebook slightly — as if a different angle might make the doodle less incriminating. But it simply stared back at him.

He flattened the page beneath his palm and turned his attention back to the reports spread neatly across the front desk.

Numbers, after all, were preferable. Room assignments could be shifted, maintenance holds could be checked, late arrivals could be accounted for, and event notes could be corrected until everything was in its proper place.

But people were… less cooperative.

Outside, rain battered the tall front windows hard enough to blur the courtyard lights into streaks of gold. From behind reinforced glass and the solid shelter of the desk, however, the storm was merely noise — noise that blended into the crackling of the fireplace and soft music on the radio.

Despite outages elsewhere in town, the lamps in the lobby glowed steadily. And the assistant manager was warm and dry.

He preferred weather from this side of the glass.

Water was one thing. He was used to water when it remained where it belonged — beyond windows, beneath docks, contained obediently by the shore. Rain was something else entirely: intrusive, inconvenient, determined to make itself everyone’s problem.

An unwelcome interruption.

Like most things in his life lately, he supposed.

His gaze drifted toward the brownie sitting on a small plate beside the rooming reports.

Chase’s brownie.

Not that the distinction mattered. It had been left in a communal staff area, and he happened to like brownies. The little ghost in one corner — piped in white icing and mirroring his frown — was irrelevant.

So was the fact that Chase had handed him one that week with a grin that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

The assistant manager cut off another small piece with the side of his fork.

The sweet chocolate and notes of espresso made the graveyard shift marginally more tolerable.

His attention drifted back toward the notebook.

The apple remained.

Unfortunately, so did the memories attached to it.

Chase, beneath the carnival lights, laughing as he shoved a caramel apple toward him and then acting absurdly pleased when he’d admitted it was edible.

Chase, drooling like a simpleton with no manners and prattling on about his taste in tall men.

Chase, winning him a stuffed black cat that now sat upstairs on the chair by his window.

The offending plush had somehow remained there ever since Chase shoved it into his hands as a half-joking peace offering, because throwing away a gift immediately would have been rude.

That was all.

He closed the notebook.

A thunderclap arrived like a loud, urgent knock — then the bell above the front entrance jingled as one of the heavy doors opened.

Cold, rain-scented air swept briefly through the lobby, and the fireplace flickered once in protest as the little baker stumbled inside — thoroughly soaked. His blond hair had gone dark with rain and clung to his forehead, while water streamed from his jacket and gathered in a widening puddle beneath his shoes.

In his arms, tucked against his chest, slept a small child.

The assistant manager recognized her instantly — despite the absence of the explorer hat she had worn at the carnival.

Chase’s daughter.

The tiny menace who had accused him of being a villain and christened him Sir Bad Cat.

But she was completely still now — breathing softly against the curve of Chase’s neck. And the little monkey plush she had carried at the carnival was wedged at her side.

The assistant manager’s attention returned to Chase.

He stopped just inside the doors and released a shaky breath, as though he had been holding it for miles. And something suspiciously like relief softened his features when his eyes landed on the assistant manager — then he approached the counter slowly, his arms trembling faintly beneath the child’s weight.

That detail changed everything.

The assistant manager set down his pen. “Are you here for more ‘team building,’ or—” he began, instinct pulling the usual dryness into his voice before he registered Chase’s shaking hands.

The rest of the remark disappeared.

He straightened behind the desk. “Why are you both so… wet?”

Chase adjusted the child’s backpack strap and shifted her higher against his chest. She barely stirred.

“Hey, Buddy.” He attempted a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, you know. No umbrella, casual roof collapse.”

Buddy stared at him.

The smile looked brittle enough to break.

His hands moved immediately toward the keyboard. “…As opposed to a formal roof collapse?” he asked as he woke the reservation system.

A thin, startled laugh escaped Chase.

Good.

Better than the face he had worn walking through the doors.

“Yeah,” Chase murmured. “Formal one requires invitations. Dress code. Maybe fancy little appetizers.” His laugh faded almost as quickly as it appeared. “Didn’t have time to prepare before the house gave in.”

Buddy looked up. “Wait.” His fingers stopped above the keys. “You’re serious?”

Chase nodded. “As a failed driving test.”

Buddy blinked.

“Hey, I flunked the first time.” Chase managed another faint smile. “The garden gnome was super in my way. And taunting me. Plus, not everyone can be ‘Mister Perfect Score’ like Dorkin.”

Buddy stared at him, increasingly unsettled by Chase’s apparent ability to recount a potentially catastrophic event and make a joke about it in the same breath.

He resumed typing. “What — exactly — collapsed?”

“The ceiling over the kitchen.” Chase glanced down at the child. “We had a leak. I thought it would be fine, which was apparently very wrong of me. Then the ceiling cracked open and half the room decided gravity sounded fun.”

Buddy’s fingers slowed. “Was either of you underneath it?”

“No,” Chase answered immediately, tightening his arms around the little girl. “We were in the living room.”

Some of the tension left Buddy’s shoulders.

He ignored that.

“And the roof itself?” he asked.

Chase gave him a tired look. “Buddy, it was dark, pouring rain, and part of my kitchen ceiling had just introduced itself to the floor. I did not climb onto the roof like an idiot.”

“That is unexpectedly sensible.”

“I mean, I almost did.”

“Of course you did.”

A gust struck the front windows.

Chase flinched.

The movement was small enough that most people might have missed it — but Buddy didn’t.

And for a fraction of a second, the humor vanished from Chase’s face entirely — something frightened and much older flickering behind his eyes before disappearing again.

Buddy returned his attention to the screen.

He understood too well what it felt like when the body reacted before one had granted it permission.

But Chase was already smiling again as though the reaction had never happened.

And Buddy found himself wondering if, maybe, the smiles and jokes weren’t evidence that Chase was okay. Perhaps they were evidence that he wasn’t.

But pointing that out would accomplish nothing except making Chase deny it.

Fine.

Buddy could work around that.

His attention dropped instead to the water still running from Chase’s sleeves, then to the faint tremor that had started in the arm supporting the little girl. Chase’s lips had lost some of their color, and when he shifted his weight, another shiver moved visibly through his shoulders.

Buddy frowned. “Sit down.”

Chase blinked. “What?”

Buddy gestured toward the upholstered chairs near the fireplace. “You are soaked, carrying a sleeping child, and steadily transferring half of the storm onto my lobby floor. Sit.”

A little of Chase’s expression returned. “Aw. You do care.”

“About the flooring.”

“There he is.”

Still, Chase obeyed. He crossed toward the fireplace and lowered himself carefully into the nearest chair — keeping the little girl tucked against his chest as he settled down. Her head shifted against his shoulder, but she didn’t wake.

Buddy disappeared into the back office long enough to retrieve two clean towels and one of the wool throws kept near the desk for guests who insisted on sitting outside long after the weather stopped cooperating.

When he returned, Chase was rubbing his free hand over one soaked sleeve in a largely ineffective attempt to warm himself.

Buddy held out a towel. “Dry your hair.”

Chase looked up at him. “Someone’s bossy.”

“Someone’s wet.”

Chase accepted it. “Good argument — practically lawyer material.”

Buddy ignored him and held out the folded throw next.

Chase glanced at it, then back at him.

“For her,” Buddy clarified.

“Obviously.”

But Chase’s mouth softened as he took it. He tucked the wool carefully around the sleeping child, drawing one edge beneath her shoulder before resting his arm over it.

Buddy returned to the desk before Chase could say anything about that. “Your power is out as well?” he asked, keeping his voice practical.

The concern came through more clearly than intended, and Chase glanced toward him.

Buddy corrected before either of them could acknowledge the lapse. “…Or did the hamster in your head finally cease spinning its wheel?”

For the first time since the wind struck the windows, something genuinely amused flickered across Chase’s face.

“More like squirrel,” he mumbled.

“What?”

Chase shook his head. “Nothing. Just… little of column A, little of column everything-is-falling-apart.” He let the towel fall around his shoulders and adjusted the backpack strap where it had begun cutting into his wrist. “I’m too tired to argue with you tonight, jerk.”

His gaze moved toward the darkened corridor behind the desk. “Where’s Harley?”

Buddy’s fingers stopped over the keyboard for half a beat, and something petty tightened beneath his ribs. “She called out. I’m covering for her.”

Chase’s brows furrowed. “Oh.”

One syllable.

An absurdly irritating syllable.

Buddy clicked the mouse with slightly more force than necessary. “You sound disappointed.”

“No, I just…” Chase worried his bottom lip before glancing toward the empty office hallway. “It’s not that I’m… not glad to see a familiar face right now.”

He paused.

“Even if it is a grumpy one.”

Buddy’s stare flattened.

Chase’s attempted grin barely lasted. “I just know she would help.”

“I am not entirely incapable of solving a lodging problem.”

Chase blinked.

The joke Buddy expected never came.

Instead, Chase looked toward the fireplace, then down at the child in his arms.

When he looked back, most of his usual brightness had disappeared.

“Please,” he murmured — so softly Buddy almost didn’t hear him.

Buddy’s hands stilled.

Chase swallowed. “...Can I ask for your help? Is there anything available tonight?”

For a moment, Buddy simply looked at him.

Chase wasn’t waiting for Harley. He wasn’t asking whether Violet might appear, or looking over Buddy’s shoulder for someone kinder.

He was asking him.

Trusting him with the problem.

The sensation was inconveniently difficult to categorize.

“One moment,” Buddy murmured, turning back toward the computer before it could become anything more troublesome.

Behind him, the fire cracked softly, and the rustle of the towel told him Chase was still attempting to dry himself rather than immediately ignoring instructions.

The emergency inventory loaded first.

Buddy checked maintenance holds, blocked rooms, late arrivals, and rooms close enough to the elevator that Chase wouldn’t have to carry a sleeping child halfway across the floor. One lake-side room had recently passed HVAC service and sat between two vacancies.

He selected it.

Then he opened the employee emergency-lodging policy.

There were several legitimate ways to classify the stay. But only one would prevent Chase from having to ask the price.

Buddy chose that one, too.

He completed the reservation before allowing himself to do anything else.

“I entered you under emergency operational lodging,” he explained. “Give me a moment to get your keys. You’ll have two weeks to start, with an extension if repairs take longer. You’ll owe nothing.”

The towel stopped moving.

Chase blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

Buddy adjusted one cuff. “The authorization is mine. If anyone objects, they can speak to me.”

Chase continued staring, the towel hanging forgotten around his shoulders and rainwater still clinging to his lashes.

Warmth threatened the tips of Buddy’s ears.

He looked back toward the monitor. “Congratulations,” he added. “For accounting purposes, you are now a plumbing contractor. Do not ruin the illusion.”

A real laugh escaped Chase.

The sound did something unnecessary to Buddy’s chest.

“Wow,” Chase murmured. “My résumé is getting really diverse.”

“I would advise against listing fraud on future applications.”

“I’ll call it creative lodging consulting.”

Buddy gave him a flat look. “That sounds worse.”

Chase’s shoulders shook faintly with another laugh before the humor softened from his face. “Thank you, Buddy.”

Buddy looked toward the little girl — because gratitude was considerably more difficult than banter. “It’s not for you,” he replied too quickly. “It’s for her.”

That was reasonable.

Children required stability. Warmth. Dry clothing. Maybe even a ceiling that remained attached to the building.

His gaze drifted briefly toward Chase’s still-shaking hands before returning to the desk.

At least the trembling had eased somewhat now that he was sitting beside the fire. Color had even eased its way back into his face — his cheeks dusted lightly pink.

The immediate problem was handled.

His attention should have stopped there.

Instead, while Chase adjusted the throw more securely around the sleeping child, Buddy opened the property-maintenance directory. And the next few minutes disappeared beneath the familiar rhythm of sorting information into something useful.

He scrolled through listings for roofing, water mitigation, and structural cleanup. Found several local companies. Eliminated one after reading enough poor reviews to become irritated on behalf of people he had never met. Then he wrote down the remaining names and numbers beside brief notes on response times and emergency services.

He barely thought about doing it.

Chase had a damaged roof. Damaged roofs required contractors. And contractors required research — unless one enjoyed making expensive decisions while cold, exhausted, and dripping rainwater onto expensive flooring.

Therefore, Buddy had researched contractors.

Simple.

When he finally looked up again, the child had shifted enough beneath the wool throw that he could see more of her face. Asleep, she looked younger — less like the tiny interrogator at the carnival and more like what she actually was: a child being carried somewhere safe because the person holding her had decided there was no alternative.

He couldn’t remember his own father ever doing that.

He blinked, then settled his gaze back on the computer — because printing key cards gave his mind something better to focus on. Something productive.

The cards magnetized with a soft beep.

Chase smiled as he watched from his seat. “Y’know, maybe you’re just a misunderstood grumpy pants with a heart of gold, after all.”

The remark landed with more force than anything containing the phrase grumpy pants had any right to.

Buddy looked up sharply. “A heart of gold sounds medically concerning.”

Chase’s mouth curved. “I have Dr. Payne on speed dial. Town doctor. We can get you checked out.”

Buddy stared at him. “Dr. Payne?”

“Yep.”

He waited.

Chase’s grin widened.

Buddy decided not to provide whatever opening he was clearly waiting for. “There is no heart of gold,” he muttered instead. “Just a gold name tag.”

“And apparently a silver spoon,” he added, almost under his breath. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Chase’s gaze traveled over Buddy’s uniform. “I don’t see a gold name tag or silver spoon anywhere.”

Buddy’s brows furrowed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile. “Would you prefer I call you little idiot instead of ‘little baker’?”

Chase sputtered quietly enough not to wake the child, looking far more scandalized than genuinely offended.

Buddy glanced back toward the computer before the smile could fully escape. “I’m having a replacement tag made,” he continued. “It’ll be here eventually.”

Chase’s lips parted in exaggerated wonder. “Wowzers. So I’ll finally get to know your actual name?”

Buddy’s fingers tightened once against the desk.

“Not just Buddy, I’ll bet.” Chase considered him with entirely too much interest. “Budward Von Buddington. That’s my guess.”

Buddy stared at him.

Ridiculous.

It was only a name.

Except… names had never been quite that simple.

Names carried weight. History. And Buddy had learned a long time ago that giving someone his name meant giving away something he couldn’t always take back. He didn’t want people knowing it before he had decided they got to.

But he had no intention of explaining that to Chase tonight.

Possibly ever.

“If you call me that again,” Buddy murmured instead, “I will place an extra-large bakery order for traditional plum pudding. From scratch.”

Chase blinked. “Buddy, that could take, like, weeks.”

Buddy raised one brow. “Tick tock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Buddy hummed. “Would you care to test that theory?”

Chase narrowed his eyes, apparently trying to decide whether the threat was genuine.

Then Buddy’s gaze shifted toward the sleeping child. “...I’ll postpone your punishment.”

Chase’s grin returned. “Classic secret-softy behavior, Buds.”

“I am not a secret anything,” Buddy muttered, with rather more conviction than the subject deserved.

Chase’s eyes traveled over his face. “Mysterious, then.”

Buddy stared at him suspiciously.

And then his brain supplied — unhelpfully — the memory of Chase rattling off mysterious and tall among his favorite adjectives.

His gaze dropped to Chase.

Chase smiled back innocently.

Buddy decided there was nothing to be gained from examining that connection.

He picked up the keycard and crossed the short distance toward the fireplace, holding it out rather than making Chase get up unnecessarily. “Room three-twelve. Second floor, lake side. It’s near the elevator, and the heater was serviced last week.”

Chase stared again as he took it. “You know when every hotel-room heater was serviced?”

“I know when that one was serviced.” Buddy’s attention dropped toward Chase’s soaked sleeves. “I’ll have extra towels and blankets sent up.”

“We brought changes of clothes.”

“Good.”

Buddy returned to the desk and picked up the phone anyway, requesting towels, blankets, and — remembering the faint squelch when Chase had crossed the lobby — two pairs of guest socks.

When he hung up, Chase was still watching him.

Buddy frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was clearly something.”

Chase looked down at the child before meeting his gaze again. “You’re weirdly good at this.”

“At hotel operations?”

“At helping.”

The word landed somewhere deep enough to make Buddy pause.

Then he straightened the rooming reports. “I solve problems.”

“Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

“No.”

Chase smiled as though he knew better, then his eyes dropped toward the desk.

Toward the brownie.

From his chair beside the fireplace, he leaned slightly to one side, apparently having finally noticed what sat beside the rooming reports.

Buddy followed the direction of his gaze and, for one irrational second, had the absurd impulse to slide a rooming report over the plate.

He resisted.

Barely.

Chase’s tired expression brightened almost immediately. “Is that one of mine?” he asked, leaning just enough to get a better look.

Buddy looked at the brownie.

Then at Chase.

Then back at the brownie.

“No,” he replied — with perfect composure.

Chase stared at him.

The tiny white icing ghost piped into one corner of the frosting sat there in plain view — cheerful and incriminating.

“Buddy,” Chase drawled slowly, his eyebrows beginning to rise.

Buddy folded his hands near the keyboard and gave the pastry a brief glance. “It resembles yours.”

Chase laughed in disbelief. “I piped that ghost myself, dude.”

“That proves very little,” Buddy replied.

Chase looked between Buddy and the brownie again. “You stole another brownie.”

“I did not steal anything.” Buddy straightened slightly behind the desk, offended on principle. “It was left in a communal staff area.”

Chase’s mouth fell open.

For a second, Buddy thought he might actually argue the legal definition of theft with him.

Instead, Chase just stared.

Heat began creeping toward Buddy’s ears.

He ignored that too.

“Fine,” Chase whispered dramatically. Then his expression brightened again. “I’ll make more tomorrow. Not as thanks or anything. Just for practice, of course.”

Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “You should deal with your roof tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Chase tucked the towel more securely around his shoulders. “After that.”

“You should also sleep.”

“After that, too.”

Buddy frowned at him. “You are impossible.”

Chase’s grin sharpened immediately. “Says the brownie thief.”

Buddy’s gaze dropped toward the plate.

Unfortunately, the evidence remained exactly where he had left it.

Point to the little baker.

Which was clearly unacceptable.

Without comment, Buddy shifted one of the rooming reports just far enough to obscure part of the brownie.

Chase watched him do it.

His grin became intolerable.

Buddy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you two have everything you need?”

Chase smirked, clearly recognizing the subject change, but exhaustion seemed to win over curiosity.

He glanced down at the sleeping child, then toward the elevator corridor. “Yeah. I think so.”

With visible reluctance, he pushed himself out of the chair. The throw remained wrapped around the little girl as he gathered her more securely against his chest, then hooked the backpack over one shoulder.

Standing seemed to remind his body how tired it was, and he paused long enough to steady himself before reaching for the keycard.

Her backpack slipped farther down his arm — and the monkey plush tipped toward the floor.

Buddy rose automatically and caught it. “Are you quite sure you can carry everything?”

Chase’s smile widened immediately, delight flickering across his tired face as though he had just caught Buddy committing some humiliating act of kindness.

“Yeah, dude. I’m stronger than I look. I was on the wrestling team in high school.”

Buddy looked him over. “What weight class? Shrimp-adjacent?”

Chase huffed. “This shrimp is scampi-ing out of here and going to bed.”

He reached for the toy.

Before Chase could take it, the little girl stirred.

Her eyes opened only halfway, unfocused with sleep. She looked first at the stuffed animal in Buddy’s hand and then slowly up toward his face.

Recognition appeared through the exhaustion.

“Sir Bad Cat,” she murmured.

Buddy stopped.

Chase went quiet.

The little girl looked vaguely around the lobby, then back at Buddy. “You’re back.”

Buddy had no idea what she meant.

Her eyes were already drifting closed again. “Good,” she whispered.

Something shifted beneath Buddy’s ribs.

Perhaps she was dreaming. That was the logical explanation.

“Remember not to steal Halloween treats,” she mumbled.

Chase looked down at her.

Then over at the brownie.

One brow raised. “Maybe too late, Monkey.”

Buddy rolled his eyes and held the stuffed toy toward the little girl.

She gathered it against her chest, then lifted one sleepy hand and patted his sleeve. “Not too late.”

Her eyes closed completely.

Buddy froze.

Three words, spoken by a half-asleep child who was almost certainly still talking about chocolate.

They should not have mattered.

And yet they settled somewhere beneath his ribs with uncomfortable precision.

Not too late.

He had spent so long treating certain things as though the decisions had already been made for him — California, his grandparents, the future waiting there whenever this strange little detour in Keysbridge finally ended.

Those expectations had existed for so long they had begun to feel less like choices and more like facts.

Things one returned to.

Things one accepted — or, at least, things one was supposed to.

Buddy looked down at the small hand still resting loosely against his sleeve.

Then he became painfully aware of Chase watching him.

He withdrew his hand and straightened. “She is delirious.”

The teasing in Chase’s expression softened. “Totally.”

Buddy narrowed his eyes. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face has.”

A quiet laugh escaped Chase.

Buddy looked away first and reached for the folded slip beside the keyboard. “Before you go upstairs,” he said, clearing his throat, “I found several contractors who handle storm damage.”

He slid the paper across the desk.

“One specializes in water mitigation and structural cleanup. Another offers emergency tarping. I eliminated a third because apparently answering a telephone is beyond their professional capabilities.”

Chase stared at the paper.

Then at Buddy. “You already looked up roofers?”

Buddy glanced down at the list as though the answer were self-evident. “Your roof collapsed.”

“I noticed.”

“Then I fail to see the confusing part.”

Chase’s mouth twitched despite the faint crease forming between his brows. He looked down at the numbers again. “Buddy, I said I’d deal with this tomorrow.”

“And now you have somewhere to start tomorrow.”

Buddy wasn’t sure why Chase was looking at him as though this required further explanation.

The roof was damaged. Chase needed a contractor. Buddy had found several.

It seemed remarkably straightforward.

Chase exhaled through his nose and rubbed one thumb along the edge of the key sleeve. “You know I can handle my own stuff, right?”

Buddy’s brows drew together. “I am aware.”

“Because you have this look like you’re about three seconds away from organizing my entire life into labeled folders.”

Buddy considered that accusation. “Your current filing system appears to consist primarily of panic and pastry.”

Chase gave him a tired look. “See? That.”

A smile threatened the corner of Buddy’s mouth.

Chase shook his head, though the crease between his brows had begun to ease. “I’m serious. I appreciate it. I do. Just…” His gaze dropped toward the list before returning to Buddy. “Let me make the calls myself.”

Buddy blinked once.

That seemed unnecessarily obvious.

“Of course.”

Chase watched him for another moment, as though waiting for an argument that Buddy had no intention of providing.

Buddy slid the contractor list beneath the key sleeve. “I wasn’t planning to impersonate you on the phone, little baker.”

A faint laugh escaped Chase.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because your Chase impression would probably be terrible.”

Buddy gave him an unimpressed look. “Your assessment is noted.”

“Oh, come on,” Chase teased. “You don't even want to try?”

“No.”

“Not even one little ‘dude’?”

“No.”

Chase looked personally wounded.

Buddy ignored him. “Although,” he added, “I strongly recommend against performing structural repairs yourself after watching a video.”

Chase blinked. “How did you know about that?”

Buddy’s mouth twitched before he could prevent it. “I didn’t.”

“You baited me.”

“You make it remarkably easy.”

Chase stared at him for a moment, then let out a reluctant laugh.

Buddy looked back toward the reports before he could pay too much attention to the sound.

Chase tucked the contractor list away with considerably more care than his earlier expression might have suggested — securing it beneath the keycard before finally turning toward the elevator corridor.

After several steps, he stopped.

When he looked back over his shoulder, the ridiculous smile had softened around the edges.

“Thanks again,” he murmured. “For all of it.”

Buddy gave him a stiff nod.

Anything more seemed unnecessary.

Or dangerous.

“Go upstairs,” he muttered.

“You got it, Buds.”

Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “Do not call me that.”

Chase went quiet for a rare moment.

Then he nodded once. “Night, Buddy.”

He disappeared around the corner carrying the little girl as though the weight belonged there.

The lobby settled into silence again.

Rain pressed against the reinforced glass.

The rooming reports remained where Buddy had left them. The apple doodle still decorated the margin of his notebook. And the half-eaten brownie waited next to them — half-finished.

For several seconds, he stared toward the corridor.

Then he pulled the brownie plate closer and took another bite.

Chase’s voice drifted faintly back through the lobby, lowered into what he apparently believed was a whisper. “He’s totally a secret softy.”

Buddy stopped chewing.

“I think he might actually be trying to be my friend, Pru.”

His head turned slightly.

Pru.

The name settled into place with surprising ease.

Chase continued in the same terrible whisper. “Don’t tell him I said that, though. He’ll probably hiss at me.”

The corner of Buddy’s mouth threatened to move.

He suppressed it.

Mostly.

Pru, mercifully, appeared to remain asleep.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

“I wish I was sleeping. This is a nightmare,” Chase groaned as he folded himself over the little table at Crafted Coffee and pressed his forehead into both hands.

The sleeves of his oversized hoodie had slipped over his wrists, leaving only his fingertips visible where they disappeared into his hair. He had been awake for most of the night — and sometime between fleeing their home, getting Pru settled at Keyhouse, speaking to contractors, and lying awake beneath sheets that smelled faintly of hotel detergent instead of his own bed, exhaustion had crossed into something heavier.

Memories that refused to let go. Worries and aches that demanded more comfort than caffeine and company alone could provide.

Though they did help.

Across the coffee shop, Deacon stood behind the counter with a stainless-steel pitcher in one hand. Steam hissed from the espresso machine, briefly filling the room with the mingled scents of hot milk and dark roast.

“Yeah, you don’t look like you’ve slept much,” Deacon observed. “Maybe just mugged by the concept of sleep.”

Chase lifted his face enough to glare at him through the bangs hanging over his forehead. “Thanks a bunch. Exactly the supportive best-friend energy I came here for.”

“I am being supportive.” Deacon nodded toward the mug in front of him. “I gave you coffee.”

“You gave me decaf.”

“I gave you half-caf because you’re vibrating already.”

Chase stared at the ceramic mug as though it had betrayed him. “That explains why I still feel human suffering.” Then he glanced at Deacon, a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, remember in senior year before finals when you dared me to chug two liters of coffee?”

Deacon blinked. “Chase, you dared yourself and—”

“And then you totally joined me because you didn’t wanna be a wimp?” Chase’s grin widened. “That was wild. I think I smelled colors.”

Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “Please don’t be so reckless. Too much caffeine will kill you.”

“You gotta admit that we had fun.”

Deacon’s mouth twitched. “I did have fun sneaking extra cookies from your mom during study sessions when she wasn’t looking.”

Chase’s smile dimmed, but he nodded. “Yeah… She was convinced she’d accidentally made too few and would bake an extra batch.” His voice grew quieter. “She liked you, Dorkin.”

Deacon’s throat worked for a beat, then he busied himself with the espresso machine again.

The morning had settled into the washed-out quiet that followed bad weather in Keysbridge. The worst of the storm had passed, but water still dripped from the awning outside and gathered in shallow puddles along the street. Clouds hung low enough that even Crafted Coffee’s normally cheerful front windows looked muted.

Only two other customers occupied the shop. One sat near the window with a laptop and headphones, while another older man had disappeared behind a newspaper.

Grandpa Ralph had vanished into the storage room several minutes earlier, muttering ominously about an inventory discrepancy involving hazelnut syrup.

The TV in the corner flashed clips of Romeo Locke and the rest of Star Brigade — arriving in Paris for the next leg of their European tour. The lead singer looked directly into the camera, made a heart symbol with his fingers, and winked.

Which Chase might’ve been more excited about on a normal day.

One without a contractor estimate folded inside the front pocket of his hoodie.

He could feel the paper there without touching it.

The number written near the bottom might as well have been glowing through the fabric.

Deacon finished the waiting drink, handed it to the customer, and came around the counter. “I’m serious about helping,” he said as he rested one hip against the empty table beside Chase’s booth. “I’ve got some savings. It’s not roof money or anything, but I could cover part of the deposit or whatever they need upfront.”

Chase raised one hand immediately. “No.”

Deacon’s brows drew together. “You don’t even know how much I was going to offer.”

“I don’t need to know. You need your savings, too.”

“For what?”

“For your life, dude.” Chase gestured toward him with the packaged banana muffin Deacon had also shoved into his hands. “Rent. Emergencies. Your nerdy books. Surprise cult membership fees. Whatever normal adults are supposed to save money for.”

“You’re also, theoretically, an adult.”

Chase brightened as he tore open the plastic seal on the muffin. “The adultiest adult that’s ever adulted!”

Deacon narrowed his eyes. “That did the opposite of helping your case—”

“Details, details.” Chase set the muffin down and let out a tired breath. “My very correct point is that you’ve helped me plenty enough, Dorkin.”

Deacon folded his arms. “That isn’t how friendship works.”

Chase gave him an offended look and pouted dramatically. “And here I considered you like family.”

Deacon slid into the chair across from him. “All the more reason, Chase. People that love you want to help sometimes. No strings attached. Because we care.” He smiled softly, then pushed the muffin back toward Chase. “You’re not alone.”

Chase’s expression tightened, and he swallowed once. To keep his emotions at bay. “This is terrible for my aloof tough-guy persona,” he muttered.

Deacon blinked. “I’m not sure I can even pretend to humor you on that.”

“Wow. Mean to me.”

Deacon merely looked at him.

That patient expression was considerably worse than an argument.

Chase reached for the muffin again, mostly because he needed somewhere else to put his attention.

“I know I’m not alone,” he said after a moment.

The answer surprised him as soon as it left his mouth.

Maybe because, for once, it was true in more directions than he was used to considering.

Deacon was here.

Grandpa Ralph.

Silvie.

Mrs. G had already sent him three messages that morning, two practical and one containing several escalating pastry-themed threats toward the weather.

Violet had ordered him to take the day off.

Simon had asked if he was okay.

Even Buddy had somehow become part of the list.

That realization made Chase’s fingers pause against the muffin wrapper.

He could still picture Buddy behind the front desk the night before, rain streaking the windows behind him while his fingers moved across the keyboard with the intensity of someone negotiating a hostage release. The room, the blankets, the dry socks, the contractor names written neatly on a small slip of paper.

Most irritatingly, Chase could still hear his response when Chase bristled at the help and asked to handle things himself.

‘Of course.’

No lecture.

No expectation.

No price attached.

Just a quiet acknowledgement that Chase was capable.

But the contractor estimate still weighed heavy in his hoodie.

His fingers absently brushed against the paper. “...I can’t ask you for that kind of money.”

Deacon’s brows drew together. “Then what are you going to do?”

Chase looked toward the front windows.

Deacon followed his gaze, and understanding tightened his face. “No.”

Chase glanced back. “That’s my line.”

“You’re going to ask them?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Deacon frowned. “You didn’t have to.”

Chase picked at the muffin wrapper. “They have the money.”

“They also tried to take Pru from you.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because my roof fell into my dining room, Deacon.”

The words came out sharper than intended.

Silence settled between them.

Chase closed his eyes and rubbed both hands over his face. “Sorry.”

Deacon’s expression softened immediately. “I know.”

Chase lowered his hands. “The contractor says they can stabilize it pretty quickly, I guess, but the stupid real repairs are more than I can cover right now. Not without draining everything… and still not having enough.”

Deacon looked toward the table.

“I could apply for a loan,” Chase continued, “but my credit still looks like it survived a small war.” He rubbed at one eye. “Legal fees, custody stuff, inconsistent work. You know the greatest hits.”

His attempt at humor sounded tired even to him.

Deacon’s jaw tightened. “I hate that you’re even considering going over there.”

“So do I.”

“Then don’t.”

Chase gave him a weary smile. “You hiding thirty grand under the espresso machine?”

Deacon grimaced. “...No.”

“Then we’re back where we started, Dorkiepoo.”

Before Deacon could answer, Grandpa Ralph emerged from the storage room carrying a cardboard box. He took one look at both of them and slowed.

“Well,” he observed as he set the box on the counter, “those are depressing faces.”

Chase lifted his mug in a tiny salute. “Mornin’, Grandpa Ralph.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“New Haven,” Deacon muttered. “Chase is going to the Hollow Estate for the money.”

Chase gave him an offended look. “Traitor.”

Grandpa Ralph’s brows rose. “You sure you want to go there?”

Chase thumbed at Deacon. “That’s basically what he said.”

Ralph hummed. “I’m older. Mine carries more authority.”

Chase reached for his coffee. “...I guess.”

Ralph came around the counter and rested both hands against the back of a chair. “You know how they are.”

Chase curled his fingers around his mug. “Yeah.”

The coffee shop felt quieter for a moment.

Then Chase did what he always did when seriousness started sinking too deeply beneath his skin.

He made it stupid.

“I know what’s waiting for me. The emotional warmth of an igloo,” he said, “And the interior-design instincts of three blind mice who got unrestricted access to a furniture catalog.”

Deacon pressed one fist against his mouth.

Grandpa Ralph barked out a laugh loud enough that the customer by the window looked over.

“They’re not monsters, boy,” Ralph said, still smiling. “They just show care a little differently.”

Chase stared at him. “Like a mommy spider lovingly eating its babies?”

Ralph laughed again despite himself.

Deacon shuddered. “Nope. Hate that image.”

Grandpa Ralph shook his head. “You joke, but people are complicated.”

“That’s definitely one word for it,” Chase mumbled.

Ralph hummed and slung a rag over his shoulder. “Well, just remember that borrowing money doesn’t mean you failed.” He gave Chase’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you’re welcome to stay with us if you need. Or let me know if we can help in any way.”

Chase nodded slowly. “...Thanks, guys.”

He finished the last bite of muffin, folded the wrapper into a small square, and slid out of the booth.

Deacon looked up at him. “You’re really going?”

“If I don’t go now, I’ll probably spend the next six hours imagining increasingly horrifying versions of the convo.” Chase shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Pru’s at school, I’ve got the day off, and the contractor already inspected the house. If there were ever a wicked convenient time to ruin my mental health, this is probably it.”

Deacon stood too. “Call me if anything happens.”

“I will.”

Grandpa Ralph pointed toward him from the counter. “And if they start acting like horse manure, remember that door works both ways.”

Chase smiled.

Ralph nodded. “Good luck, son.”

The word warmed Chase’s chest in an embarrassingly immediate way.

He looked toward the door before either of them could notice. “Thanks.”

Then he left before the warmth inside Crafted Coffee could make leaving harder.

Outside, cold air struck him immediately.

The storm had moved east, leaving Keysbridge washed gray and slick beneath a sky that still threatened more rain.

Chase pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his hair and crossed toward his car, shoes splashing through a shallow puddle near the curb before sliding into the driver’s seat.

One raindrop plinked onto the windshield.

And Chase’s hand hesitated — just for a fraction of a second — before starting the ignition.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Chase almost second-guessed himself three times on the drive toward the estate.

But soon, Keysbridge disappeared into the rearview mirror. The highway became city streets, and before long, those narrowed into winding roads. Thick canopies of trees closed in overhead as the route climbed higher into the hills. Wet leaves clung to the asphalt in dark patches, and his tires hissed softly over the damp pavement.

The farther he drove, the more space appeared between houses.

Eventually, even the houses disappeared.

Then came the hedges.

Tall, perfectly trimmed, suspiciously healthy hedges.

Chase slowed when the wrought-iron gates appeared.

They opened before he reached them.

He stared through the windshield. “Right. Cool, cool, cool. Why have a normal million-dollar gate when your gate can be psychic?”

There was probably a camera. Or a license plate reader. Possibly a glitch in the matrix, because the universe seemed to enjoy making his life miserable.

At this point, none of those options would surprise him.

The estate emerged beyond the trees, past a patch of Joe-Pyes that seemed to wilt further as he passed them.

The manor itself wasn’t ostentatious in the way some rich houses were. There were no fountains shaped like Greek gods or gold-plated lions guarding the entrance.

But that somehow made the wealth more obvious.

The stone exterior, tall windows, broad circular drive, and meticulously maintained grounds all carried the quiet confidence of a place that had never needed to prove anything.

The money had been there too long.

Chase parked near the front steps and left the engine running for several seconds.

Both hands remained on the steering wheel.

At Crafted Coffee, with Deacon across from him and Ralph moving behind the counter, he had managed to say the words out loud.

I know I’m not alone.

And he had meant them.

Mostly.

There were people who loved him. People who would make space, offer guest rooms or couches, hand over savings they couldn’t afford to lose, research roofers without being asked, or quietly turn a hotel suite into something he didn’t have to pay for.

He knew that now.

Maybe he had always known it somewhere.

But sitting alone in the car, staring at a house that held several years’ worth of arguments behind its front doors, the knowledge felt strangely far away.

People could stand beside him. They could offer. They could care. But eventually there was always a moment when Chase was the one who had to open the door, ask for what he needed, and decide which bad option hurt least.

That part had always belonged to him.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Maybe that was why being alone had never frightened him quite as much as needing someone did. Chase knew how to be alone. He was good at it.

Too good, probably.

His gaze shifted toward the contractor estimate on the passenger seat.

He could still leave.

He could turn around, call three lenders, sell something — sell several somethings — or begin a highly illegal underground bank-robbing operation. Hold up a teller with a croissant and an IOU sticky note.

The thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

Then he thought about Pru, and the decision was already made.

Chase shut off the engine.

Silence settled around him immediately.

No friends. No Prunella. No suspiciously caring hotel management quietly removing obstacles before he could argue about them.

Just Chase, the estimate on the passenger seat, and the old familiar feeling that when everything narrowed down far enough, there was only one person left to carry it forward.

Him.

He climbed out.

His boots crunched over brittle leaves gathered near the edge of the drive. Cold wind tugged at the hem of his oversized hoodie, and he shoved both hands into the front pocket as he climbed the steps.

The sweatshirt had belonged to his dad.

It still fit Chase too loosely through the shoulders. The sleeves hung long enough to cover most of his hands, and the fabric had faded after years of washing. One hole had been restitched twice, and a button or two had been replaced — all because Chase refused to throw the thing away.

He wore it when he wanted comfort without admitting he wanted comfort.

Today qualified.

His fingers curled into the worn fabric near his stomach.

For a moment, he wanted his dad with an intensity sharp enough to stop him halfway up the steps.

Not the abstract kind of missing that lived permanently beneath everything. He wanted him specifically for this.

Wanted to hand him the estimate and hear him swear at the number. Wanted his mom to tell both of them to stop panicking before anybody had even called the insurance company. Wanted someone older to know what came next.

Wanted, just once, to be the person following instead of the person figuring it out.

The thought hurt more than he expected.

Maybe that was the part no amount of friendship quite reached. Deacon could offer money. Ralph could call him son. Buddy could quietly remove obstacles Chase hadn’t even known how to ask about.

But none of them could be his parents.

None of them could give him back the version of himself who had once been allowed to assume somebody older would handle the frightening things.

That boy had disappeared a long time ago, and Chase had gotten very good at replacing him.

He swallowed and kept climbing.

The hoodie shifted against his shoulders with every step, too large in all the places his father had once filled it properly.

For some reason, that nearly undid him.

Instead, Chase shoved his hands deeper into the pocket and lifted his chin. By the time he reached the polished double doors, his expression had settled into something he hoped looked normal.

He lifted one hand toward the brass knocker.

The door opened less than thirty seconds later.

A petite maid stood in the entryway, her uniform immaculate despite the wet weather. Recognition softened her expression when she saw him.

“Welcome, Master Hollow,” she greeted. “Madam Hollow knows you’ve arrived.”

Chase stepped gratefully into the warmth. “Thanks.”

The maid lifted both hands toward his sweatshirt. “May I take your coat?”

Chase glanced down at the faded hoodie, and his fingers tightened automatically around the hem.

“I’m good. This one stays attached.”

Something behind her eyes shifted with quiet understanding.

“Of course.” She gestured down the hall. “Madam Hollow is in the sitting room.”

Chase followed her gesture toward the long corridor. “Right. Here I was hoping she might be in the standing room.”

The maid’s mouth twitched.

Chase waved one hand vaguely. “There’s a room for everything in this place. I think I’ve gotten lost here before.”

Her smile widened briefly before she excused herself.

Chase remained in the foyer.

The house was undeniably beautiful.

That annoyed him.

Tall ceilings stretched overhead, edged with original molding. Dark wood framed wide archways. An antique staircase curved toward the second floor beneath a chandelier that looked old enough to have opinions about electricity.

The furniture was another matter.

Leopard-print upholstery. Pink drapes. Tiny tables supporting oversized lamps with aggressively decorative shades.

And wallpaper.

An unreasonable amount of wallpaper.

The place smelled faintly of lemon polish, old wood, and sadness.

Everything gleamed, nothing matched, and somehow the whole house still felt cold.

That had always been the strangest thing about it, because the temperature itself was perfect. The cold came from somewhere else — from silence, forced smiles, and the uncomfortable suspicion that every joke needed to pass inspection before anyone was allowed to laugh.

Chase followed the hallway and turned a corner.

He found her in the sitting room.

It was an aggressively beige space, interrupted only by a bright turquoise loveseat whose velvet upholstery and gold trim possessed enough personality to compensate for nearly everything around it.

Beth looked up from the book open in her lap.

Then she cleared her throat and stood to greet him.

“Hello, Charlie,” she murmured, more cautious than welcoming. “Well. This is a surprise. Is it Christmas already?”

The old name tightened Chase’s shoulders before he could stop it.

Of course.

Thirty seconds in the room and she had already found the bruise.

“...Hi, Aunt Beth.” He shoved his hands farther into the hoodie pocket. “I was just… in the area and thought I’d stop by and say hi. So… hi.”

Beth’s gaze moved over him, taking in the damp boots, faded sweatshirt, and exhaustion that had to be written across his face.

Concern sharpened her expression.

Chase hated that he could recognize it.

He hated even more that part of him still wanted it.

Beth gestured toward the loveseat. “Sit down.”

Chase eyed the turquoise furniture but obeyed, lowering himself onto one end before grabbing a pillow and wedging it behind his back.

Beth settled into the armchair across from him.

Before she could steer the conversation anywhere else, Chase rubbed his thumb over the seam of his sleeve.

“Also, it’s… it’s Chase now. Remember? I’m sure I told you.”

Beth’s expression barely shifted, but the pause that followed was long enough to make him feel seventeen again — too loud, too strange, too inconveniently himself.

He shouldn’t have to defend his own name.

Not anymore. Not here.

But the old fear crept in anyway, slow and familiar.

“Right,” Beth said eventually. “If you’re sure, then you must’ve.”

Chase’s stomach tightened.

There was something almost impressive about the way she could make four ordinary words sound like a character flaw.

“I’m sure.”

Beth’s brows lifted slightly before some of the old sharpness returned. “Perhaps it was in the letters you’ve been meaning to send?”

There it was.

Chase sucked his teeth and leaned farther into the pillow. “Okaaaay.” His gaze wandered deliberately around the room. “Well, since we’re already doing this, I… love what you’ve done with the place.”

His eyes landed on a painting of a Dalmatian sitting inside a claw-foot bathtub.

He stared.

“Looks… great. Very apoplectic.”

Beth blinked. “You mean ‘eclectic.’”

Chase nodded solemnly. “Samesies.”

A tiny smile threatened the corner of her mouth.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

The grandfather clock near the windows ticked steadily into the silence.

Beth looked toward him. “Would you like tea?”

Chase shook his head. “I would totally love some coffee.”

Her brows rose. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

He didn’t particularly dislike tea.

Tea reminded him of his mom.

He just disliked tea here.

Tea in this house felt like sitting too straight while someone evaluated whether his answers were acceptable. Coffee belonged to Deacon, Grandpa Ralph, bakery mornings, paper cups, and normal life.

Before Beth could call for the maid, another voice carried in from the foyer.

“Beth? I’m home.”

Beth’s posture shifted slightly. “We’re in here.”

Footsteps approached.

Dale appeared in the doorway wearing a dark coat over a button-down shirt. He carried a small stack of mail in one hand and his glasses in the other.

When he saw Chase, surprise crossed his face, followed almost immediately by something warmer.

“Well,” Dale began as he stepped into the room, “what is it, Christmas already?”

Chase closed his eyes. “Do you two rehearse?”

Dale’s mouth twitched as he set the mail on a side table. “Hello, Charlie.”

Chase opened his eyes again. “...Hi, Uncle Dale.”

Dale crossed toward the drink cart and began pouring himself something amber from a crystal decanter. “It’s nice to see you, Charlie.”

Beth looked toward Chase, skepticism returning. “Charlie was just in the area and decided to say ‘hi.’ Isn’t that nice?”

The emphasis landed exactly where she intended it.

Dale’s brows rose.

Chase shifted against the loveseat and tugged nervously at one sleeve. He had rehearsed several versions of this conversation in the car.

Apparently none of them had survived contact with Aunt Beth.

“Well,” he began, “I actually came here for a reason.”

Dale turned toward him. “You need money.”

The conclusion arrived so quickly that Chase’s jaw dropped.

Beth looked at her husband.

“I have a situation,” Chase insisted.

Dale added ice to his glass. “You need money.”

Chase gritted his teeth. “Uncle Dale, can you please let me say the stupid humiliating part before you skip to the end?”

Something in Dale’s expression softened. He turned away from the drink cart and held Chase’s gaze. “Go ahead.”

Chase breathed in slowly.

Beth and Dale both watched him.

His pulse began climbing.

“So, Pru and I—”

Both of their expressions changed immediately.

Beth leaned forward. “Prunella?”

Dale lowered his glass. “How is she?”

The speed of their concern sent something complicated through Chase.

They cared about her.

That had never really been the question.

The problem was what they sometimes believed loving her entitled them to do.

“She’s fine,” Chase assured them quickly. “She’s good. Promise. I’ve got it handled.”

Beth’s shoulders loosened slightly.

“She just started kindergarten,” he continued, and despite everything, his mouth softened. “Actually, she made a friend.”

Beth blinked.

Dale smiled. “Did she?”

“Yeah.” Chase looked down for a moment. “His name’s Robin. He likes bugs and frogs and birds and basically anything you’d expect to find under a wet rock.”

Dale chuckled. “A little man after my own heart. Good, good.”

Beth’s face softened in a way Chase rarely saw. “That’s… really wonderful, Charlie.”

The name scraped against him again.

“Yeah,” Chase said quietly. “It is.”

Dale lifted his drink. “Have you looked into gifted programs? You know, she’s really quite bright—”

Chase closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“I was only saying—”

“I know.” Chase opened his eyes and gave him a tired rather than angry look. “She’s doing really well where she is.”

Dale considered that before nodding. “Well, give it some thought. She won’t get into a good university with normal coursework.”

Chase sighed. “She’s doing great.”

His stomach tightened again at the word.

He needed to say it.

He had come all this way to say it.

If he let them keep talking about kindergarten and gifted programs and appropriate friendships for ladder-climbing, he might lose his nerve entirely.

“So.” Chase rubbed both palms against the thighs of his jeans. “The reason I’m here is— well, except for Pru being great, our house is currently kind of... not?”

Beth frowned.

Chase rushed ahead before she could interrupt.

“The storm did a… little damage.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe a lotta damage. We had a leak, then it got worse, and part of the ceiling over the breakfast nook came down— but Pru is fine! I’m fine! Nobody was underneath it, so before either of you start doing the face thing, we’re okay.”

Beth’s expression changed abruptly.

Dale’s glass stopped halfway toward his mouth.

“What?” Beth asked.

“The storm,” Chase repeated, words coming faster now that he had finally started. “Water got in. Plaster came down. Contractor came this morning. Nobody died. Very exciting. Zero stars.”

Beth’s eyes widened. “Are you both okay? Were you injured?”

“Just my pride,” Chase replied automatically.

Neither of them laughed.

His attempted smile faded. “We’re okay. We’re staying at Keyhouse until I can get the place fixed.”

Beth exchanged a glance with Dale, then looked back at Chase. “You can stay here.”

The lack of hesitation almost made refusing harder.

Chase shook his head. “No.”

Beth’s expression tightened.

He lifted both hands before she could turn the refusal into evidence against him. “I mean… no, thank you. Our life is in Keysbridge. Pru’s school is there. My job is there. Robin is there. Everything she actually knows is there.”

Beth remained unconvinced, so Chase added, “And Keyhouse gave us the room for free.”

“For free?” Beth blinked. “Are they running a charity, or are they that desperate to fill rooms? Are there bedbugs?”

The question landed with exactly the sort of polished contempt Chase remembered — the effortless assumption that anything offered cheaply had to be dirty or beneath consideration.

Dale hummed. “Cimex lectularius.”

Chase stared at the ceiling. “No, Aunt Beth.”

Dale gestured his glass toward Chase. “So, you do need money — for repairs. How much?”

Chase’s mouth went dry.

This should’ve been easier now that Dale had said it first.

It wasn’t.

He had spent years becoming unusually skilled at not accepting money. When townspeople slipped extra cash into his hand after odd jobs, he found ways to give it back. When Mrs. Talbot had tried to pay him triple for clearing snow from her walkway because she knew about Pru, he had accepted the agreed amount and left the rest beneath her flowerpot. When people offered groceries, gas money, clothes, anything that felt too much like charity, Chase smiled, joked, thanked them, and wriggled free.

Work was different.

Work meant he had earned it.

This—

His fingers closed around the folded estimate inside his pocket.

This was asking.

And somehow asking Beth felt worse than asking almost anyone else.

“Yeah,” Chase said too quickly. “Right. So. Money.”

Fantastical start.

He pulled out the estimate before he could change his mind.

“One of the contractor peoples came out this morning,” he continued, already unfolding it. “Gave me an idea of the damage. It’s pretty steep, but I have savings and insurance should cover some eventually and I’m not asking you to pay the whole thing or anything, obviously, because that would be insane—”

“Charlie.”

Beth’s voice cut cleanly through the rush.

Chase stopped.

He hated how quickly she could still make him feel as though he had been talking too loudly at the dinner table.

Dale held out one hand.

Chase passed him the estimate.

The rustle of paper seemed far too loud in the quiet room.

Dale unfolded it fully and began reading while Beth leaned slightly toward him.

Neither spoke.

Chase could hear his own pulse too clearly.

“It’s a lot,” he said unnecessarily.

Dale kept reading.

Chase tugged his sleeves farther over his fingers. “Um. Like I said, I have some savings, and insurance should cover part eventually — assuming they don’t discover a paragraph written in four-point font explaining that weather is, like, personally my fault.”

Beth gave him a familiar look — the one that had always suggested humor was an unfortunate habit he might someday outgrow.

Chase looked away.

“But I don’t have enough to cover what they need up front,” he continued. “Not without wiping out basically everything I have, and even then I’d still be short, so…”

His throat tightened.

He forced the rest out before he could lose it.

“...I need help.”

There.

He had said it.

The admission shouldn’t have made him feel smaller, but it did.

Dale looked up from the paper.

Chase swallowed and immediately rushed to fill the silence. “I’ll pay you back. Obviously. I’m not asking you to just give it to me. I can do monthly payments, or once the insurance comes through I can put most of that toward it, and I can pick up more hours if I need to. I just need enough to get the work started before more rain comes through and turns the breakfast nook into an indoor pool.”

“That’s not—”

“And I know I haven’t exactly been around much, so I get that this is incredibly awkward and possibly incredibly rude, but—”

“Charlie.”

Dale said it quietly.

Chase looked up.

Dale glanced briefly toward Beth before returning his attention to him. “We can help.”

Chase blinked.

He waited for the rest, but nothing came.

Dale folded the estimate once. “Of course we can.”

Relief hit Chase so quickly he almost felt dizzy. “...Really?”

Dale looked faintly confused by the question. “Of course. We’re happy to.” He started toward the writing desk. “I’ll get the checkbook.”

Chase watched him move.

That had been disturbingly easy.

He had expected a lecture. An argument. Maybe a detailed inventory of every bad decision he had made since age nineteen, followed by a payment schedule printed on embossed stationery.

Instead, Dale had simply said yes.

And then Beth reached out, catching him lightly by the forearm before he had taken more than two steps.

Chase’s stomach sank.

He should have known better than to mistake silence for mercy.

Beth smiled at him — tight enough that Chase immediately distrusted it.

“Yes, we’d be happy to,” she echoed. “On one condition.”

There it was.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Chase felt his shoulders tighten beneath the hoodie. “What condition?”

Beth’s mouth pressed into a thin line, perhaps reacting to the bitterness he hadn’t quite hidden. “If we’re going to help you with the repairs, then we’d like to see her.”

Chase’s jaw set.

Beth continued before he could interrupt. “And you. Regularly.”

That changed something.

His expression must have betrayed it because Beth watched him closely.

“We barely know anything about your lives anymore,” she said. “We hear about things after they happen, if we hear them at all.”

“There are reasons for that.”

Dale cleared his throat beside her chair. “Now Charlie,” he chided lightly, “she just misses Prunella.”

Beth glanced toward him but didn’t disagree.

Chase looked between them. “So, what, you want visitation rights now?”

Beth’s head lifted sharply. “Did I say that?” she asked, then glanced toward Dale. “Did I? Heavens, perhaps that finishing school Mother paid a fortune for was a complete waste. Imagine spending all that money teaching a girl to speak properly only for her own nephew to hear something entirely different.”

Dale sighed. “Beth—”

“Or maybe,” she continued, lifting one hand, “good Lord, perhaps senility has finally arrived! I was hoping for another decade, but apparently I’m already inventing entire conversations and forgetting them within seconds.”

“Dear—”

But Beth had already turned back toward Chase, chin lifted. “I am not asking you to reopen visitation, Charlie. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Chase worked his jaw once. “...Then what?”

Beth looked toward the windows before turning back. “Dinner.”

Chase blinked. “Dinner…?”

“Every Sunday.”

For several seconds, he simply stared at her.

“That’s the condition?”

“Yes.”

A sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “So you’re buying Sunday dinners? That’s just visitation rights cosplaying as ‘happy family time.’”

Beth went silent for a beat.

Then she reached for the small silver bell on the coffee table and rang it.

The sharp little ding made Chase recoil.

“Francesca,” Beth called toward the hall. “Bring us some coffee.”

Of course.

When cornered, Aunt Beth apparently preferred refreshments.

Chase folded his arms and stared at her.

Eventually, she looked over and held his gaze.

Beth sighed. “I’m not trying to get backdoor visitation, Charlie. I’m simply trying to create a reason you won’t disappear again.”

Chase scoffed. “Aunt Beth—”

His eyes flicked toward Dale for help.

Dale simply shrugged before lowering himself into the chair beside Beth. “It would be nice to see her, Charlie.”

Chase’s mouth tightened at the name, but he let it go.

Silence settled into the room while the grandfather clock ticked behind them.

His fingers curled into the worn fabric of his father’s sweatshirt, and his gaze dropped toward the turquoise velvet beneath one hand.

Beth shifted slightly. “We are not asking to control your life.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “I don’t exactly take that sentence on, like, faith. Or goodwill. Or rainbows.”

Beth stared at him. “One dinner,” she said. “That’s what I’m asking.”

“One dinner every week.”

“For a few hours.”

Chase pulled at his fingers.

He could already imagine it: Beth asking Pru what she ate for breakfast, whether Chase helped with homework, what time she went to bed, whether the repaired ceiling still leaked. Every harmless question sharpened by history until Chase heard an accusation inside it.

Maybe that wasn’t always fair.

It also wasn’t exactly invented.

“No custody stuff,” Chase instructed. “Not with her. Not around her. And you don’t get to interrogate Pru about things,” he said.

Beth’s brows rose. “I don’t interrogate children, Charlie.”

Chase gave her a flat look. “You absolutely interrogate children.”

“I ask questions.”

“You conduct depositions over mashed potatoes.”

Dale pressed his lips together.

Chase saw the laugh trying to escape.

Beth turned a sharp glare toward her husband, causing him to look down at his hands.

That almost made Chase smile.

Almost.

Instead, he leaned back and looked toward the contractor estimate sitting between them.

Money.

A roof.

Pru.

Sunday dinners.

The pieces tangled together until none of them felt simple anymore.

For a moment, he thought about the night of the storm.

Buddy holding the keycard toward him. The contractor list. The dry socks.

No demand that Chase come back. No requirement that he prove he was grateful.

Nothing except… help.

Chase had hated accepting that, too.

So had he hated the extra twenty Mrs. Talbot tried to slip him after he shoveled her walkway. The grocery bag Mr. Whitaker once left on his porch when work had been thin. The townspeople who sometimes tried to turn payment for an odd job into something larger because they knew he had Pru at home.

He had always found a way to return the excess, repay it, work it off, or pretend not to notice what they were doing.

Not because they were cruel.

Because owing people made something inside him itch.

The realization made him pause.

Maybe he had spent so long learning that help could become leverage that even uncomplicated kindness made his shoulders rise.

That didn’t make Beth’s condition fair.

It didn’t erase the custody fight, or all the times concern had felt suspiciously like judgment dressed for dinner.

But it did make him wonder whether every hand reaching toward him was something he needed to slap away.

He rubbed his thumb against the cuff of his father’s sweatshirt while Beth waited.

Finally, Chase looked at her. “If I agree, I need something else, too.”

Her posture straightened. “What?”

“I don’t want Pru to know I borrowed money from you.”

Beth’s expression shifted.

Chase continued before she could ask why. “She worries more than she should. She notices bills. She notices when I pick up extra shifts. She notices when something breaks and I stare at it for too long.”

A tired smile pulled at his mouth.

“She’s six. She should be worried about whether Robin thinks frogs are cooler than salamanders, not whether I can afford a roof.”

Beth regarded him for a long moment, meeting his gaze evenly before a polite smile settled over her expression. “Fine,” she agreed. “Does seven o’clock work for you?”

Chase sighed, bounced his knee, and looked away toward the Dalmatian painting — where the unfortunate dog still sat inside its claw-foot bathtub staring outward with profound existential disappointment.

“...Seven.”

As if on cue, the grandfather clock by the window began to chime.

The first deep note rolled across the room.

Beyond it, new droplets had begun appearing against the tall windows. At first there were only a few, but more followed — tracking uneven paths down the glass as wind stirred the wet garden outside.

The grandfather clock chimed again.

Chase stared at the gold hands until they blurred.

“Seven,” he repeated. “We’ll see you then.”